


Underneath the City Streetlights

by moonlitfool



Category: Mystic Messenger (Video Game)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Homophobia, Hurt/Comfort, only bc there's a group of women gossiping about jumin at the beginning of the story, there's a little bit of, thread metaphors
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-25
Updated: 2020-12-25
Packaged: 2021-03-10 17:40:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,849
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28301004
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonlitfool/pseuds/moonlitfool
Summary: You’re not in love with Han Jumin. You don’t even see him under a romantic light. Yet… there’s an undeniable thread that connects your heart to his existence whenever he enters your proximity. And whenever that thread catches your gaze, you can think of nothing else than making a colorless prince of stone and ice melt completely underneath the spring sun.(Little did you know, Han Jumin is the one who cast that thread onto you, drawing you closer and closer into his grasp.)In which you work under Han Jumin as his assistant and accidentally unlock the lock guarding his heart.
Relationships: Han Jumin & Reader, Han Jumin/Main Character, Han Jumin/Reader
Comments: 4
Kudos: 69





	Underneath the City Streetlights

**Author's Note:**

> requested on tumblr! i had so much fun writing this... i think i fell in love with jumin all over again, oh no... (♡´艸`)

Han Jumin did not care who you were, nor did he need to know who you were.

All you were to Jumin was a blurry entity morphed into the other many faceless ghosts in the sea of living who surrounded him, suffocating him at the base of his neck.

And as far as he was concerned, you were simply his employee. 

Jaehee’s replacement.

The same went for you as well. To you, he was simply your boss. Of course, he was easy on the eyes—too  _ pretty  _ to look at even. With hair as black as the night and cold eyes that sparked the midst of winter from within your chest, you couldn’t help but glue your gaze to his every movement that always seemed to be calculated and elegant, never clumsy or ugly. With a baritone voice as handsome as his, it always seemed to send a field of goosebumps raising on the back of your neck to the front of your cheeks. Just a single syllable slipped by his pink lips, and your chest became home to a kaleidoscope of colors.

But...

You’re not in love with Jumin.

You don’t even see him under a romantic light.

(After all, how could you—you who is only but a mere subordinate, employed amongst the many others working under his name?)

For he would never cast a glance your way or speak to you without a purpose. There are even times when you did talk to him, but even so, the walls that he put up between himself and the people around him made it impossible to see his true self. When you did meet his gaze, his eyes were always half-lidded in the most disinterested way, shooting across your fragile self mercilessly. And behind that window laid a world of unexplained theories and a phenomenon you had yet to understand in your ten months of working under Jumin’s supervision.

“Wouldn’t it be great to be able to marry Mr. Han?” A voice sighed out amidst the group of women who stood near the coffee machine.

“Oh my god, wouldn’t it?” Another voice chimed in. “It’s too bad that the only good things about him are his face and his wallet. I don’t even think he even likes women.”

The grip you had around your coffee tightened.

Among all the things you notice in your ten months of working under Jumin’s supervision, you notice the frightening amount of rumors that float around C&R—most of them unpleasant and wrenching to hear. It makes you wonder if being born with a silver spoon in your mouth was really as easy as people made it out to be. 

You may not have worked as long as some of the other employees here at the company, but you’ve worked long enough to know that Jumin isn’t heartless. He may put up a cold facade to fool the gold-digging women flocking around him, but if you squint, there’s just the slightest streak of  _ human  _ hidden behind the fog that separates the outside world from his core. It makes you wonder if Jumin feels more than he shows.

(It makes you wonder if he’s just become accustomed to this type of behavior.  _ Numb _ … even.

And the thought of that strangely strikes a piercing pain straight through your heart.)

The woman from before speaks again. “I heard he even made his previous assistant cut her hair! Like… was that because he was  _ gay _ ?” You’re not even looking at the group of women. You don’t even  _ want  _ to, but even without looking, you can tell that she’s scrunching up her face like there’s something wrong with that assumption.

“I heard his father arranged another marriage for him.”

“Didn’t he just attend one just yesterday?”

“I don’t know. Maybe she wasn’t pretty enough.”

“I bet I could turn him straight.”

“Ha-ha! There’s no man on Earth who can ever resist women like us.”

“So, if I really tried to seduce him, how many days would you give him?”

“Hmm…  _ Two _ . At most!”

When laughter breaks out, it rips across your eardrums. People are gossiping about Jumin’s arranged marriages again—the same very arranged marriages that his father had been pushing onto Jumin lately. You’re not even sure what happens next because the cup within your hand is trashed in the nearest bin, and you’re currently walking stiffly towards the group of women, trying to balance the piles of papers you held in your other hand. If it were even possible, you try your best to muster the politest glare on your face. “Isn’t it inappropriate to talk about your superior’s sexuality? You talk almost as if there’s something wrong with not being attracted to women.”

The group of women turn to you, eyebrows raised like they didn’t say anything wrong. “ _ Excuse me _ ?”

You surprise even yourself when you open your mouth to fire back at them again, harshness dripping off of your every word. “Have you considered that maybe the way he doesn’t familiarize himself with people like you is because of how nasty you women can be? I wouldn’t even be surprised if he really didn’t like women if it were  _ you  _ up for competition! Is this how you show someone that you like them? You don’t decide the value of someone based on their possessions! You don’t even know what he’s been through—”

“—Ms. MC.” A voice pulls your attention away from the group of women beginning to scatter away from your sight.

_ Jumin’s  _ voice.

Your heart pounds.

He didn’t hear anything just now, did he? 

What was he even doing, standing at the front door of the employee’s breakroom? 

“M-Mr. Han.” You try to speak evenly, meeting his gaze as calmly as you can with the small smile you always presented as his assistant. Shifting your weight, you pretend as if nothing is wrong, despite the little strain in your voice you have when you reply to him. “Was there something you needed?”

There’s a moment of silence that Jumin takes to gaze at you before he shakes his head, pursing his lips. And for a moment, you see a foreign expression that flashes through his features. “... Nothing really. I just...” Clearing his throat and almost as if at a loss for words, he briskly turns and walks away, hand brushing the back of his hair and down to the base of his neck. “My schedule for this afternoon, please.”

You let go of the breath you didn’t even realize you were holding. Seems like he didn’t hear anything.

As you begin filling Jumin in about his activities for the rest of the day, you notice the rhythm of his footsteps—how  _ just  _ subtly, has his pace slowed. From a rushed  _ 1-5-9-17 _ to a steady  _ 2… 4… 6… 8…  _ A very subtle change from the notorious speed he usually took through the building of C&R. 

(If you were Jumin, you realize that you too… would adopt a speed so fast that it would hurt to walk. Only because all you would think about, with the many eyes and ears that constrict your every movement from the moment of your birth, is getting away. No need for any destination. No need for any route. No need for any coherent thought.

And living this way every single day of your life doesn’t take this pain away.

It desensitizes you.

There’s a very faint ache that resonates from within you when you ponder about the loneliness Jumin must have, shoved into a box and locked away with the key thrown away.)

“I...” Jumin begins once you’ve finished speaking, sitting down at his desk after he takes the pile of papers gently from your arms. The action makes you, again, blink, dumbfounded as to why he isn’t readjusting the cuffs at the end of his sleeves and taking out the pen silently from the right drawer to sign his work away like he does every single day.

“Sir?”

Jumin still doesn’t look at you. “I do not understand.”

“Ah! My apologies. Your schedule for today might be a bit much, Mr. Han, but I assure you that tomorrow will have—”

“— _ No _ , no.” Jumin blurts out. “That’s not what I meant. How…  _ How _ ...” In his voice, there’s a tremble and strain so low that it makes your breath hitch. “How could you have said the words I’ve wanted to say for so long? Since when I was a child until now… You speak so easily, so  _ vividly _ , so accurately...” When he finally turns to you and allows your gazes to meet, your eyes greedily drink up the streams of emotions flooding from his face and into the palm of his hands. “These words that I’ve since locked away in my heart…” His words come out as a whisper, a high-pitched breathless whisper. “...  _ How did you see _ ?”

He sounds so desperate to hear an answer, and you could only stand there, watching as the ice exterior around him melts away and trickling into the palm of your hands. So, he  _ did  _ overhear your argument with those women—though you don’t think you said anything that should’ve caused him to become this unstable. You almost think of replying seriously, but  _ hell _ , you don’t even know how you would begin answering his question. With the amount of pressure Jumin has undergone the past few days, you’re afraid to say something that’ll only push him over the edge.

“Mr. Han.” You start off. Although it is a bit unfitting for you to do so, you put a hand on his shoulder, giving it a little squeeze. And you decide to ask him about his private life, something you’ve never done before. “You’re suffocating, aren’t you?”

All you can do right now, if Jumin would even hear it, is offer him words of comfort. You know you weren’t born into a background of neverending wealth, you know you’ve never been forced into marriages bound by a loveless contract, you could only but understand so far—you know that.

Yet, when you look at the countless threads that pitifully entangle Jumin, when you see how tightly bound his neck is by these threads, when you watch how these threads are strung through a needle held by Jumin himself, you want to bring the pair of scissors tightly grasped within your hands closer. And not even thinking about which thread to cut, you blindly choose the one right in front of you, taking in the sight of the fibers straining against the blade.

You begin to close it.

And Jumin allows you, his hand hesitantly over yours.

“...  _ I am _ .”

(It makes you happy to see the thread snap apart,  _ so _ happy that the prickling sensation of Jumin’s needle driving right into the center of your heart goes unnoticed.

And though the threads don’t all unravel right away, Jumin looks freer than you’ve ever seen him in your ten months of working under him.)

After that day, the dream of making a colorless prince of stone and ice melt completely underneath the spring sun—a dream you didn’t even know you had—came true. A colorless prince that you had previously watched through a one-sided window for the longest time finally rested his eyes upon you, no longer feeling like a pair of icicles shooting across your soul.

Rather than icicles, it’s a ticklish sensation that manifests from the bottom of your chest.

After that day, you begin to see more sides of Jumin, sides of him you didn’t even know existed. 

The way life seeped into his eyes when pictures of cats on bulletin boards would catch his eye.

The way the ends of his lips would curl up into a smile when he cracked a humorless joke.

The way he would be so proud of himself for said joke, even if nobody laughed along with him.

The way his hand would extend out to yours for you to grab onto when you had to exit the car.

The way he would speak to you, voice taking up a more gentle and light tone than before.

The way his attention would be fully dedicated to you when you spoke, even if it meant ignoring the outside world.

The way he would memorize what time you came into work, what time your breaks were, and what times you left work.

The way he would seek you out during those times, even if it sent his bodyguards on a little hunting spree.

The way the both of you would be on a first name basis, instead of using the little “Mister” and “Miss” formalities like before.

The way the both of you would brush off the weird stares people would shoot you because of the lack of honorifics.

Then, there was the way that, at the end of each day, you two would stand underneath the city streetlights and bid farewell to each other. Every single day without fail. Even after seeing this sight for what seemed like the millionth time, you realize that this man… Although all you saw him as was your boss at the beginning, this man has fully captivated your heart without permission.

Perhaps he didn’t need your permission to begin with.

You admit it.

You’re in love with Jumin.

You’re wholeheartedly in love with Han Jumin.

And upon the night sky, you wish from the bottom of your heart that Jumin returns these feelings of yours, even if you’re unable to communicate them first. How the city lights softly frame his features, how no words need to be exchanged in order to savor this moment, and how his eyes that wholly capture the vast blanket above you both—eyes that reflect an image of you… and you only.

(Your heart aches at the thought of Jumin sharing this time with someone other than you.)

“MC.” Jumin says out of nowhere, hands shuffling a bit in his pockets. “I don’t want you working for me anymore.”

You hear a car pull up behind you, but that isn’t what shatters the peace. “ _ What _ ?”

“I mean”—Jumin stutters, uncharacteristically so, pink splattering all over his face—“I don’t want you as my assistant anymore.”

Your voice is small when you respond. “... Are you firing me?”

Jumin flushes a deeper shade of pink. “No—I mean,  _ yes _ . I just”—he sighs, shuffling closer to you and takes a second to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear—“I cannot imagine anyone else as my wife but you.”

Against your will, you part your lips to respond, but nothing comes out. Before you could even scramble for the words to reciprocate his confession, he continues. “Love did not exist in my world until I met you.” Jumin chokes out, dropping his voice to a whisper and running a finger across the bottom of his lips. When he inhales, you can hear him wavering, causing trembling to rise up within you. “I don’t know how I was so blessed to have the fates lead  _ you  _ to  _ me _ . I—“

You don’t let him speak any longer, burying your face in his coat and letting your tears run freely. “ _ Han Jumin _ , I love you too…! My husband can be no one else other than you!”

Another sharp inhale from Jumin, and the next thing you know, he’s guiding your face to his with a finger under your chin, meeting you halfway for an overdue kiss.

(Jumin’s been living this way for the past twenty-seven years.

At age seven, he can only remember the face of his mother who abandons him for a lifelong trip around the world in crinkled and faded photographs thrown carelessly into an album.

At age ten, love redefines itself in the back of his head as he watches his father lead a countless number of women and their flowery stench into his room from afar, a pile of shopping bags left by the front door for the maids to clean up.

At age fourteen, the suffocating grownups surrounding him teach him that in the precarious world of business, he needn’t bring anything with a heartstring still tied to its end.

At age eighteen, the colors of his universe begin to mellow out, leaving nothing but the cold darkness behind in the corners of his vision.

The many more years that follow are bland, tasteless, and empty. Hell, he doesn’t even remember many things that’s happened to him during his twenties.

_ Everything is fine _ , Jumin thinks to himself. Trivial things like happiness and love aren’t necessary. The concept of emotions has never been within his grasp anyways. He’s been living this way for that past twenty-seven years; he can and will live this way for many more.

At least, that’s what he wants to believe until you come tumbling into his life, bringing behind you the colors of the universe he had long ago forgotten.

And it starts when Jumin meets you for the first time, eyes unlike any other gazing back at him evenly with an aura of a clear sky without any clouds.)

**Author's Note:**

> original [post](https://mrhanjumeow.tumblr.com/post/638430911735660544/hiyaaa-may-i-please-have-a-one-shot-with-jumin) on my tumblr at [@mrhanjumeow](https://mrhanjumeow.tumblr.com/)


End file.
